


Missing Scenes

by angelslaugh



Series: Lingrean Rosal'sule'din [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23208328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelslaugh/pseuds/angelslaugh
Summary: Scenes that do not fit in the main huge story of 'Lingrean Rosal'sule'din'.*No relationship tags will be added... mostly 'cause I have so many pairings going on at one time, that I'm only going to tag characters that appear and have a relevance to the story.
Series: Lingrean Rosal'sule'din [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1469309
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8





	1. Tevinter Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian really wants to do something Tevinter-style; the Inquisitor wants him to know something else entirely.

In Tevinter, when one was courting a woman, it was polite to ask the brother or father permission to date another. Dorian, being quite inclined to the male sex, figured at _least_ asking a relative would make sense.

Fenris was quite out – Fenris was in no way close to Syven other than acknowledging him as blood on their mother’s side; Varaina was only close to Thalia, and – well, Thalia was his twin. Also, the Inquisitor.

_The Inquisitor it is._

Very un-traditional, but it would ease his mind…

“Do you happen to know where the Inquisitor is?” he wondered to Cassandra, who was stabbing straw dummies.

“Where she usually is,” Cassandra grunted. “In the Great Hall. Or throne room. Whatever the dmaned hall is called.”

Ah, on that _very_ uncomfortable Andrastrian throne.

“Or in her room,” Cassandra added. “You might want to ask Calia.”

~:~

Calia, an elvhen maid under employ of the de Chalons House due to the Inquisitor’s status as Duchess. Fair-haired and green-eyed, she was a few inches taller than the Inquisitor herself – most city elves tended to be healthier than the Dalish, but both Syven and Thalia were both rather short, even for the Dalish.

Dorian had done research on the Dalish in Tevinter. As they were elves, many of his information sources called them ‘savages’ and ‘heretics’ (and honestly, he could only refute the ‘savage’ part so far. They fought without holding back… But, well. Call a Dalish a savage and you’re most likely dead, so Dorian was rather tactfully going to say ‘dangerous heathens’); the only reliable source were the Dalish-born slaves and Dorian really didn’t go around asking ‘hey, are you a Dalish-born?’ without repercussions.

(To be honest, he had never been _that_ curious. Now that his lover was _really_ a Dalish elf…)

“Miss Calia!” He had _finally_ got in the habit of calling elves ‘miss’ and ‘young ser’ or ‘ser’. Etiquette by Alexius while in Ferelden had versed him pretty quickly in that elves in the South here were definitely _not_ like the very obedient slaves – probably because the worst thing the elves here had to go back to was an alienage.

(Not something he’d seen personally, to be clear.)

“Yes?” the head servant answered, standing from her very human son and gazing at him coolly.

“Might I ask where the Lady Inquisitor is?” he inquired politely.

“You may,” Calia said, sharply. “She is currently in her chambers, working on paperwork.” She tilted her head. “Go find someone to play with,” she urged her son. “Mama has work to do.”

The boy gazed at Dorian, his features vaguely familiar, before scampering off.

“Charming little boy,” Dorian mentioned.

Calia glared at him before sharply turning on her heel and stalking towards the Inquisitor’s chambers.

Dorian followed her. Eyes were following them – eyes that Dorian tried not to notice.

(It was actually hard, nearly impossible to go anywhere without _eyes_ watching him or Alexius. He had yet to see judgement in the Inquisitor’s eyes, but sometimes it was just so _hard._

Syven allowed him to be himself. Dorian felt his cheeks heating up when he’d recalled the morning, when Dorian had been ready to leave.

 _Is it Tevinter custom to leave a partner in the morning?_ Syven had asked, lazily.

 _Well, I had assumed this was a one-time thing,_ Dorian had murmured. _It’s not like I fit the requirements of a Dalish woman, so –_

 _Tch._ Dorian had looked behind him, seeing Syven make a face. _I’m not sleeping with those Dalish women, Dorian. I usually ask the people I fuck with they make **some** kind of commitment…_

 _Like what?_ Dorian inquired, pausing in pulling his tunic on.

 _For one, **staying,** _Syven had pointedly said. _And talking, if you don’t wanna have more sex._ Dorian heard him moving, felt the elf’s hands encircle his chest. _I have to say, Dorian… Dalish elves are **very** flexible._

Yes, Dorian had to stop thinking about that…)

It was hard to accept that _Dalish elves_ were willing to accept him.

Calia rapped her knuckles on the door thrice; the Inquisitor’s distant voice called for them to enter.

Dorian tried to pick up his scrambled thoughts as he walked behind the head maid.

“Calia, I have the requisition forms for Threnn and approvals for Cullen. Care to send them back to those two when you’re done with whatever?” the Inquisitor called down, sounding annoyed.

“Of course, my lady.” The head servant’s demeanor suddenly changed as she entered the main room. “My lady, Dorian of Tevinter is here to see you.”

The Inquisitor’s quill stopped scratching on parchment.

“Oh?” the Inquisitor’s chair scraped back. “Hold on a moment – I wasn’t expecting visitors other than you, Calia.”

Calia nodded, shooting a dark look to Dorian as he stopped before he arrived to the top. Rustling happened, then a chair was moved again.

And then a table was moved.

“Inquisitor, I don’t think he wants to stay for tea,” Calia called.

“Dorian, you’ll stay for tea, won’t you?” the Inquisitor’s voice was firm.

“Of course,” Dorian called.

“Then come in,” she called back.

They entered the room. As her personal quarters, Dorian understood they were mostly for show. A neat, nearly-unused ornate bed lay in there, a bare dresser… On her loveseat, there was a couple blankets and a pillow.

A cluttered desk – presumably the table she had dragged away – was shoved up against the balcony doors. A tea set sat on a small stand next to one of the chairs, an empty stand next to the wooden chair. The Inquisitor quickly transferred the tea set over to the uncomfortable chair stand and turned, a smile on her lips. An enchanter’s robe was loosely tied over a normal tunic and leggings, bare feet just barely visible under the hem of the robe.

“Dorian,” she said, warmly. Dorian was… well, honestly surprised. “Calia, would you go get that thing I asked you to get?”

Calia scowled. “Fine,” she said, shooting Dorian a nasty glare before stalking out and slamming the door behind her.

“I presume you like the richness of Vyrantium tea, no?” At his nod, she nodded and gestured for him to sit. He sat in the comfortable chair. “Personally, I enjoy the sweetness of Neromenian tea. Bitter, but with the right amount of sugar, _just_ sweet enough.” She picked up the teapot, setting her hand on the side.

He heard the tea start to bubble.

“Did you know that this teapot was actually made by some people Leliana knows? Apparently they can enchant teapots for mage use!” She removed her hand and pointed at the enchantment.

“Ah. That looks nice.” Dorian really wasn’t feeling his best.

She frowned at him before pouring the tea in his cup.

“Just letting you know, this tea is from Ostagar.” She grimaced. “Not my favorite place to get tea, mind, but unless I trade with the bloody Carta I can’t get Vyrantium tea _or_ Neromenian… Ah, well. We must have what we already have.” She gave him a quick smile before pouring her own and sitting down.

“Now, tell me,” she said, bringing up her knees to hide under her voluminous robe, “what did you want to talk about?”

Dorian tested his tea first. He nearly spat it out – this tasted like water with the weakest tea leaves he’d ever tasted – if they were even tea leaves!

(Later on, he would realize, after venturing to Ostagar with the intention of buying something pretty to give to the Inquisitor that the people of Ostagar tended to pick a random leaf and drop it in water.)

“Your brother,” he said, slowly.

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed fractionally.

“Oh?” she asked, her voice frosty. “What about him?”

“I –“ Dorian swallowed, his throat dry despite the tea. “I would like to first say that in Tevinter, to court a woman we must go to the closest male relative. As Syven is male and you are his closest relative, I would like to ask your permission to date him.”

The Inquisitor’s frosty exterior thawed as she smiled at him.

“That’s _so_ cute,” she said, smiling. “You have my permission indeed.” She sipped her tea.

Dorian exhaled.

He was sipping the water (he tried not to shudder as he tasted it) when three raps came upon the door.

“Ah, that’d be Calia.” The Inquisitor smiled at Dorian. “Come in, Calia!”

The door opened, Calia huffed as she shut it.

“I got it!” she called.

Dorian made to turn his head.

“Now, Dorian.”

Dorian felt a very bad chill down his spine as he met the Inquisitor’s relaxed, smiling, and open face.

“My brother will eviscerate you if you break his heart,” she said, “and he can – and will – do it to anyone who does so. Now, take a look at what Calia is carrying.”

Dorian swallowed as he turned his head and paled.

Yenera’s broadsword, known because only Yenera requested the image of her beloved axe on her other weapons, was nearly twice as tall as the Inquisitor and quite a bit heavier than both Calia and the Inquisitor combined.

“I am known, to many of my close acquaintances, to have _extremely_ strong arms,” the Inquisitor _purred._ “I am also known to be _terrible_ with a sword. _Terribly_ clumsy.”

Calia was smirking at Dorian.

“If you hurt my brother, and he doesn’t happen to get at you within the first day, remember that sword,” the Inquisitor cheerfully said, a big smile on her face, “because _that_ thing will be the last thing you ever see.”

Dorian licked his very dry lips. “I… the warning is understood and taken seriously, my lady.”

Her crazy smile softened. “I don’t threaten you because you’re Tevene, Dorian. In fact, I could care less about that.” She paused, then made a gesture to Calia.

“Thank the _Maker,”_ Calia grunted, tossing the sword onto the bed before walking out.

“I just don’t want my brother heartbroken,” the Inquisitor resumed after the sword had been tossed down. Her magenta eyes closed for a long moment.

“I would do the same, if it were one of my sisters,” Dorian murmured, thinking of said sisters.

“You have sisters?” The Inquisitor sounded bewildered. Ah, yes – they hadn’t seen any more of the other Pavus family members in Tevinter.

“Yes, Fath – Magister Pavus usually has them stay in Asarie.” Dorian smiled at her tiredly. “I’ve no doubt he told Mother and them that I was dead.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Hmm.”

She did not say what she was thinking, but Dorian didn’t want to know. They finished their tea in silence.

~:~

Later, Syven and Dorian parted from the bedroom Syven was staying in, heading to the mess hall.

“So, are we telling anyone or am I to stay your secret?” Syven just looked inquisitive, like he didn’t care either way – and, Dorian supposed, it wasn’t something people truly thought was abhorrent behavior. Void below, he was certain he saw two female templars kissing a few moments ago, so…

Dorian slung his arm around Syven.

“Our private matters are private,” Dorian said, “but I don’t really care if you announce to the world we’re fucking all day and night in your room.”

“Oh, but that would be a _lie,”_ pouted Syven with a smirk, getting in close to Dorian. “I’d have to keep you in my bedroom sun-up to sun-up again.”

Dorian threw his head back and laughed, his relief at Syven’s agreement making his laughter loud.

His eyes caught Thalia’s. Thalia offered him a warm smile.

Then her smile sweetened and she pointed to Yenera –

Dorian’s laughter died, because Yenera let the sword drop and cleave a watermelon in half with a gross _squish_ sound.

He shuddered, but offered the Inquisitor another smile.


	2. Pentaghast - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relative of Cassandra's appears. This is Part 1 of 3, so a three-shot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 1 only because I wanted to post something... Um, Allegra Pentaghast and Ianto of Rivain are OCs (Allegra is the eighteenth in the Pentaghast royal line)... you don't really have to read this, but I thought a small side story about Cassandra would be good since I don't actually have her in the bigger story all that much.   
> Oh! After this, I DO have a Cassandra/OC one-shot... so stick with this, please!

“We are going to Ostagar,” Cassandra announced, stripping the blankets off the loveseat the Inquisitor was laying on. “It’s only a week away – you need time away from all this.”

The Inquisitor dragged herself up. “ _All this_ is an organization you helped build,” she remarked as she straightened. “Just why do you think I need time away?”

“Because I am being forced to go, and I believe I shall make others accompany me if I’m forced to go,” Cassandra replied, bluntly. “A relative of mine shall be in Ostagar, and I have to meet her. Leliana said so.”

“Is Leliana –“

“No,” Cassandra interrupted. “Elaine is coming. Leliana requested _that_ much. Now, please. Hurry and get some clothes on.”

She opened the Inquisitor’s drawers.

“You’ll not be going as the Inquisitor,” Cassandra informed her. “But as the Grand Duchess of the Frostbacks. It’s simpler that way and shall explain your presence.”

She threw the clothes at her face. The Inquisitor groaned and laid back down, only for Cassandra to whistle loudly.

“I’m here!” Calia called.

“Fuck,” the Inquisitor muttered with another groan, dragging the clothes off of her face.

~”~

Allegra Pentaghast was the eighteenth cousin to the king of Nevarra. Ianto, her love, was a Rivaini prince; a prince she was dead set on marrying.

Unfortunately… The king of Nevarra disagreed. In order to make certain that they got their wish, both traveled down to Ferelden to make it work.

Again, _unfortunately,_ the only way they could get married was by an official of the Chantry. And, well, considering Allegra herself was sixteen and Nevarran law was she had to be eighteen – a law in Ferelden that stated she had to have parental permission. Or a guardian’s permission.

So, therefore, Allegra had pleaded her cousin to visit. An older cousin could count as a guardian, right?

Around her and Ianto, Ostagar bustled. Horses rode in, horses rode out. Allegra picked up a shiny apple, throwing a shiny coin to the merchant with a wink.

The merchant flushed and clutched the coin between his grubby fingers.

Allegra bit into the apple as a loud shout was heard.

_“Make way! Make way!”_

The street cleared, making way for a group of five horses; one horse rode in front, carrying a young man with a vaguely familiar crest upon his armor; a straight-backed, masked Lady of the House (whatever the House was) rode behind him. As she passed, Allegra could not help but admire the Lady’s cloak – a deep, soft-looking midnight blue that allowed her red hair to stand out _just_ right.

Allegra spotted the heiress of the Trevelyan House – an apostate, technically; all mages were at this point.

Then she spotted her cousin, the fourteenth cousin to the king of Nevarra. Cassandra Pentaghast was as regal as ever in her Seeker’s armor. Allegra rolled her eyes as Cassandra passed. Cassandra never cared about protecting the king’s image – Allegra didn’t, at this point, but to be wearing such armor in crowds!

 _Cassandra, the ever-so-beloved of the king,_ Allegra thought with jealousy, viciously chomping her apple as the last knight behind them passed.

While Cassandra _was_ likely never to inherit the throne of Nevarra, the king of Nevarra made a point of boasting about Cassandra at any state dinners that Cassandra _actually_ attended. Of course, the king would boast about his children, a few of the cousins – but Cassandra was always mentioned at one point if she was attending. The last one had ended with Cassandra being called away by the Divine – right before the Conclave.

Allegra hadn’t known Cassandra was alive until the woman wrote her while Allegra was en-route to Ferelden six weeks ago – so long with no contact! News traveled agonizingly slowly.

When Allegra had begged her arrival in Ostagar two weeks previous, she had no idea Cassandra was actually going to show up, not having received a letter. Seeing her had been a shock – but Allegra would have her answers, and she would have them _now._

Allegra set off with that purpose in mind. No pretty baubles held her attention now; no, Allegra walked to the Duke of Ostagar’s home, of which the Duke had graciously let a _technical_ princess and _actual_ prince stay.

Allegra waved to the guard, who gave her a bow before removing his attention from her. Allegra slipped into the home amongst bows.

“My lady,” a butler said, bowing at the waist, “the Duke of Ostagar asks you to meet him at dinner, when he shall introduce his other guests.”

“Then I shall graciously accept His Grace’s request,” Allegra replied with a nod and a smile before returning to her room, tossing a beaming smile into Ianto’s room. The prince was reading, but he looked up to give her a distracted smile.

Dinner came quickly, Allegra dressing… like she wasn’t _trying_ to be a princess – downplaying her riches, but having enough. Her father certainly wasn’t going to pay a dowry for her!

Ianto was… Ianto. He had on his normal open tunic, though Allegra thanked the Maker he’d put on a shirt under; his trousers were made of fine material… Allegra was slightly embarrassed as she tucked her arm in his. _He_ didn’t look like the second prince of Rivain.

But, she supposed, that’s what made them fall for each other.

The herald announced them. “The Prince Ianto of Rivain and Princess Allegra of Nevarra.”

They entered the banquet hall.

Allegra was well-used to them, of course; she didn’t expect to see Cassandra sitting there, scowling as she turned a righteous glare on Allegra and Ianto.

“Come, come,” the Duke, Ethan Barland, waved the duo in, his wife Aster smiling.

It was strange, but the people of Ferelden were strangely friendly.

“We’re still waiting on two people,” the duke said brightly. “Make yourselves comfortable, my –“

“The Lady Elaine Trevelyan,” the herald said, sounding as bored as he had when Ianto and Allegra had arrived.

Lady Trevelyan, resplendent in an enchanter’s cloak and a pendant with her House crest on it, gave the duke a small curtsy.

“Your Grace, thank you for allowing me entrance in these troubled times,” Lady Trevelyan demurred.

“Not at all,” the duke said, easily. “To house such important and distinguished guests… You are welcome in my home, Lady Trevelyan.”

The herald squeaked, drawing Allegra – who had just began to sit – and Ianto’s – who had already sat down, without pulling out Allegra’s chair – attention.

“The Grand Duchess of the Frostbacks, the Lady Kerrah de Chalons!”

“It’s _Thalia_ de Chalons,” the woman said, her voice cool. “Cultural thing, your grace,” she nodded at the duke. The duke bowed his head lower than she did hers; the duchess’ red eyes met Allegra’s.

Allegra didn’t understand; not at first – she didn’t understand why the six elvhen servants in the room stared at her with a mixture of jealousy and hatred – and one, and only one, there was awe.

Then she did, as the duchess turned her head to the servants, waiting by her seat.

The one in awe rushed forward.

Allegra was still gobsmacked.

Very much displayed were the oft-talked of, even in Nevarra and Rivain, pointed ears that belonged to the Masked Duchess of Orlais, the _only_ elvhen duchess – and a _Grand_ Duchess, at that! – to have ever gotten a position _that_ high in the Orlesian nobility.

“Shall we begin dinner?” Duke Barland asked, eagerly.

“Certainly,” Lady Aster smiled, clapping her hands; the servants suddenly jumped into motion, as if just now recalling they were supposed to be working. As the first course was put down, Lady Aster began to speak. “My lady, you said _culture._ If the rumors are correct, you are of Dalish origin?”

“I am still Dalish, Lady Aster,” the Grand Duchess said, her odd magenta eyes meeting Lady Aster’s. “My marriage has not changed my roots, nor my culture. If a human suddenly joined a Dalish clan – which, honestly, is impossible – they would still be used to human culture.” The elf smiled nicely at Lady Aster. “Does this answer your question?”

Lady Aster chuckled. “It certainly does, but you said it would be impossible for a human to join a Dalish clan. Forgive me, but it was said that no elf would gain the status of a noble, yes?”

The elf smiled again.

“True enough, but I am afraid that my husband is one-of-a-kind. No human would ever be _accepted_ into Dalish clans,” the elf clarified.

“Oh?” Lady Aster seemed mildly disappointed.

“I’m afraid the memory of the elves is far greater than most racial memories,” the elf replied, cutting off some chicken into a small bite. She offered no explanation, instead casting about for another subject. “This is quite the lovely home you have here.”

Lord Barland grinned. “Ah, the king is very generous as long as the people are happy.” He paused. “Might I ask you why you’re here?”

“Seeker Pentaghast had business in town,” the elf answered, “and I’ve heard such good things about Ostagaran tea – I could not miss this opportunity to try it!”

Lady Aster grimaced quickly; Allegra was lucky enough to catch it.

“Ah! I’ll be right back!” the duke said, standing with a wide grin on his face.

He left.

Lady Aster leaned across the table.

“Smile,” she said, a wide, fake smile on her face. “Act like you _genuinely_ like it. I’m from Denerim and it’s tea is far better!”

“I’m aware,” the elvhen duchess said with a chuckle. “I’ve had it while my husband entertained some guests he didn’t particularly like. But, well, my dear Lady, a guest must always compliment the tea of the host, yes?”

“But why,” Lady Aster groaned, “do we _all_ have to suffer for my husband’s _insane_ idea of what _tea_ is?”

The elf winced. “I apologize, Lady Aster.”

“No, don’t,” Lady Aster said, her voice lowering as doors opened and Duke Barland started stomping near. “I know you didn’t mean offense… I’ll try to get him to finish dinner quickly.”

Allegra didn’t really know what the hell was going on…


	3. Pentaghast - Part 2

Dinner finished, and awful tea forced down, the hosts bowed out, giving the guests the freedom of the parlour. Ianto searched for a good book in the study.

“Might I suggest this book? Bit of a dull start, but rather intriguing later on,” a voice said, holding out a tome. Ianto turned to see the Masked Duchess staring at him. He glanced down.

_The Practical Applications of Curatives_

“Oh, I’ve already read that one,” he admitted. “ _Really_ dull, actually. Not a _bit_ of a dull start.”

“Eh, depends on if you’re ever in a pinch.” The Masked Duchess shrugged and placed it back upon the shelf; Allegra walked in, her face turning into a weird expression as she saw the Masked Duchess. “Lady Pentaghast.” The Masked Duchess nodded at her.

Allegra gave her a tiny bow.

“Your Grace,” Allegra murmured demurely. “Where is my cousin, Cassandra?”

“Probably changing out of her armor,” the Masked Duchess said, candidly. “You know, I didn’t come here with the intent to upset things. Cass thought I needed to get out.”

Ianto looked her over. “You look stressed,” he said. “She is correct.”

The Duchess rolled her eyes.

“Whatever,” she groaned. “I could be in my bedroom, lounging around.”

“Hey, Inquisitor, you think I should ask Lord Barland if I can keep this book? I think it might be good to –“

Elaine halted in her speech as Ianto caught sight of her, the Lady Trevelyan’s face paling.

“Go ahead, Elaine,” the _Inquisitor_ muttered, walking over and tossing herself into a seat. “You know, it’s not much of a secret if all the bloody doors are open.”

“I thought we were alone,” Elaine meekly replied.

“Ferelden and Orlais are not like Ostwick, Elaine,” the _Inquisitor_ of the _Inquisition_ said with a scowl, her brow movements visible due to the mask on her face moving just a small bit. The _Inquisitor_ was the _Masked Duchess._

Of course, rumors were the highlight of many long days at Court, so yes – Ianto knew of the Inquisition, knew that the Inquisitor was rumored to be an elf, was _rumored_ to have journeyed to _Tevinter –_ but he had thought little of them, preferring his books to the court rumors. Allegra allowed him his peace in books, as he allowed her the indulgences of being fawned over; he did love Allegra, of course – he wouldn’t have agreed to elope without her – but sometimes she just didn’t understand the importance of _listening_ while reading.

So yes, he had heard of the Inquisitor, but thought it some mere nobleman’s flight of fancy.

“Lady Inquisitor,” he said, bowing at the waist.

“Don’t bother with formalities,” the Inquisitor said with a darker look.

“ _Civility,”_ Elaine muttered, a smile on her face. Ianto thought it looked very fixed.

“Fine,” the Inquisitor sighed, standing and walking over to the wine. “I’m taking this up to my quarters. Tell Cassandra –“

“ _Civility,”_ Elaine repeated, firmly.

The Inquisitor scowled deeper, then flopped in a disgraceful way into the seat. “ _Fine.”_

She glared at the fire.

Ianto tilted his head, staring for only a few seconds longer.

Something was _wrong_ with the Inquisitor.

~:~

Cassandra entered the parlour with a scowl.

“Allegra,” she said, folding her hands above the three tunics she’d tossed on. She felt very naked without most of her armor, but as the duke’s home was almost _ridiculously_ safeguarded from outside enemies, she figured wearing her armor was overkill. She still had her sword, though. “You wish to marry Prince Ianto against our king’s wishes. Why?”

Her cousin latched onto the prince.

“We’re in _love,”_ her cousin proclaimed.

Cassandra pinched her nose.

“And how long have you known him?” she asked, wearily.

“Four years,” Allegra admitted, looking dreamily at him. “He’s only two years older than I.” She turned wide eyes the color of serpenstone to Cassandra. Cassandra knew Allegra was fickle, but if she’d stayed with this man and intended to _marry_ him – “We shared a room onboard the ship,” Allegra proclaimed. “I’m not too fond of his habit of reading at supper, but we’ll make it work!”

“I’m not too fond of you interrupting my reading with _suppers_ when it’s in the middle of the day, either,” mumbled Ianto. “But we do love each other.”

Cassandra tried not to groan, casting a look at the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor just continued her moody stare into the fire. Since they’d gotten back from Orzammar, she’d been going into strange _moods._ It was enough to make Leliana worried she was going to sink back into her own mind and decide life was hopeless because she didn’t have magic.

“Hmm. If there was a life-or-death situation, would you still cling to each other? Or will you fight for each other?” Cassandra honestly meant it as a hypothetical, but the Maker was against her, because there was a sudden crash within the house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there's actually a 4th part, but I can't integrate that until after the story ends just because I'm cruel like that >:)
> 
> For real though, it gives way too much information about the ultimate endgame so that's why I'm not posting it. Yet.
> 
> Next chapter is Cassandra/OMC. Hope you like this one and the next one!

Ianto highly doubted it was actually a home invasion, and he was proven correct – if one could say that one of Allegra’s many cousins was standing in the parlor, watching the group with a watchful eye even as Cassandra tried to talk to _another_ of their shared family members, was not actually a home invasion.

It was, at this point, that Ianto wished Allegra didn’t have _so many_ relatives. Nineteen other cousins was… a bit _excessive._ Given that most, if not all, the Nevarran royalty had to be in attendance whenever something truly impressive – like a king’s speech – happened, Ianto had met many of Allegra’s cousins.

Knowing the King of Nevarra disagreed with Ianto and Allegra’s marriage, his own mother, the Queen of Rivain, had warned against associating with Allegra, but had allowed them to elope – she could not afford to piss the Nevarran king off.

However, Ianto was quite tired of idiotic _politics,_ and stood after snapping his book shut.

“If you will not accept Allegra’s marriage to me, I request a duel,” Ianto said, boldly, readying to throw down a glove (although really, it was mostly for dramatics. Rivain didn’t normally stoop to Nevarra levels) in front of Allegra’s relatives.

“Now, now,” the Duchess de Chalons said, crossing her legs. Ianto’s brows shot up; trousers or not, a proper lady didn’t do such a thing. Admittedly, he had not even recalled she wasn’t wearing an Orlesian outfit, as those of Orlesian nobility were wont to do. “I’m certain we can come to an agreement without shedding blood on Ferelden soil, no?”

“Shut up, knife-ear,” the third prince of Nevarra barked. He was younger than Allegra; he had little business in her affairs.

“ _Watch your tongue_ ,” Cassandra warned, a hand going to her sword.

“Well, well,” Lady Trevelyan laughed, stepping into the room gracefully. “Your Majesty,” she curtsied. “Might I ask why you’re invading Duke Barland’s home and violating Ferelden sovereignty?”

“I need no explanation,” scoffed Castor. His twin brother, Pollux, shifted with an embarrassed look on his face. The fourth prince had _some_ common sense, it seemed.

“You do, actually,” Cassandra replied, hand still on her sword. “Your Majesty, I would be very careful about saying the wrong thing. You are violating Ferelden sovereignty and you just insulted a very important woman.”

“Who? Lady Trevelyan?” scoffed Castor.

“No, me,” the Grand Duchess said, standing; there was something dark and cold in those magenta eyes.

“Castor, Pollux,” Cassandra said, gesturing to the Masked Duchess, “this is the Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Castor went pale. Pollux inclined his head.

“What,” the Inquisitor asked, folding her arms, “is the problem, _exactly?”_

“My cousin Allegra wishes to marry Ianto, the second prince of the Rivaini throne,” Cassandra explained, a look of irritation on her face. “The king is none-to-pleased, given the volatile nature of politics between Rivain and Nevarra.”

“We normally never get along,” Pollux said, casting an apologetic look at Ianto. “Rivain is far too free from the clutches of the Chantry –“

“- and yet, from what I hear,” the Masked Duchess interrupted, looking rather bored, “the Chantry forbids the practice of marrying more than one woman. Your King is a hypocrite, no?”

Castor and Pollux flushed bright red. It was well-known that Nevarra practiced _that_ particular cultural-ism.

“So, here it is,” the Inquisitor said, sitting back in her chair, “Allegra and Ianto will wait two more years, and _if_ their feelings remain, and they remain true to each other, they are free to get married.”

“You have no say in alliances!” proclaimed Castor, touching his own sword.

Cassandra stepped in front of the Inquisitor, hand once more on the pommel of her sword.

Ianto sucked in a breath. Cassandra had chosen to side against the ruling family.

She was going to be disowned.

“You stand against us?” Pollux seemed… lost. As though it was unexpected.

“There are two others to take the place I hold,” Cassandra said with an eyeroll. “If the King should be displeased with my actions, then I shall never show my face at a banquet again.”

“Cassandra, don’t,” the Inquistor said, sounding wearied.

Allegra stamped her foot childishly.

“I just want to be _married_ to Ianto already!” she huffed. “I don’t _care_ that I’m underage –“

“And I happen to,” Cassandra cut in, turning and glaring at Ianto. Ianto threw his glove at Castor as Castor withdrew a knife – probably to cut Cassandra’s neck and kill her. Castor went down.

Pollux eyed his downed brother.

“Is your glove made of metal?” Pollux inquired.

“No,” Ianto mumbled, his ears getting warm as a weight attached itself to him. Allegra was staring at him with wide, adoring eyes. He just had lots of strength, is all.


	5. Cassandra Pentaghast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander recalls a moment in time. Cassandra finds herself a date.

SEVERAL YEARS AGO, NEAR VERCHIEL

“The damn elf is _missing,_ and the duke will literally _murder us_ if we can’t find it!” Demian, a commoner turned chevalier, complained to Alexander Varan.

Alexander didn’t _disagree_ with him, exactly, but really preferred to keep his mouth shut. Mostly because Demian _always_ complained.

Currently, they were outside Verchiel, but there was no telling where the elf had been able to run. Since she’d last run four days ago, they had started outside the city and were planning on expanding their search.

Four hours since she had vanished wasn’t long, but Dalish elves were renowned to be quick and strong.

Alexander raised his eyes. In the tree above him, a crowd of squirrels sat.

Well, _shit…_ this wasn’t natural.

As one, the squirrels turned to look at the group of chevaliers.

“- and it gets everything it asks for –“

“Demian, shut the _fuck_ up,” Alexander ordered harshly. “Look _up.”_

He could only hope they were looking.

“This is a summoning spell,” whispered a chevalier.

“No, I thought it was just an _illusion,”_ Alexander bit back sarcastically, moving to get his shield… Slowly…

Demian scoffed. “They’re just _squirrels._ Hit ‘em with a rock and let us be on our way!”

Saying so, he threw a rock at them.

It hit a squirrel.

The group of chevaliers would always be traumatized by seeing the group of squirrels flying at their faces. What Alexander recalled, too, was a weight that _wasn’t_ a squirrel falling onto him and helping grab the squirrels off of him.

When he could see his companions, he saw the Dalish elf they’d been trying to find assisting them in throwing the squirrels off and making them go away.

When all was said and done, the elf just scowled at them and spoke in clumsy Common.

“Long spell,” she said, gesturing to the tree.

Alexander just kicked a dead squirrel away. He squinted to see if he could see Verchiel from here; they had traveled hours to find the small elf.

“Thank you,” he said to her, holding out his hand. The elf eyed it like the gesture was unfamiliar to her.

“Well, now we have dinner,” Demian muttered, picking up several squirrels.

Alexander let his hand drop, embarrassed he’d waited so long.

“Life safe,” the elf muttered, looking at Alexander for a moment. Her strange red eyes were cautious and wary.

The camp was quickly set up, the elf sitting next to Alexander, but far enough away it was obvious that she wasn’t fond of humans.

Demian began to skin the squirrels; the elf scoffed when he was done with the third.

“Got a problem, elf?” Demian asked, stopping; his knuckles were white, his grip on the blade firm.

“Bad job,” the elf said, pointing at his skinning skills.

Demian tossed the knife at the elf. Alexander watched with wide eyes as the elf caught it by the hilt, the blade less than an arm’s length away from her face.

“Do it yourself, then,” Demian snapped, throwing the squirrel’s body at her.

The elf just tossed the squirrel away, then grabbed one of the other squirrels Demian hadn’t skinned.

It was then that he got a reminder that she’d grown up with Dalish elves, hunting and skinning for food – within a few strokes, she had a good pelt and more meat than Demian had gotten.

Demian shoved the pile of squirrels at her.

Alexander scowled at Demian.

~”~

“Why,” the duke said, with a patient look on his face, “did you leave? You know of the deal –“

“Like she can even _speak_ Common,” Alexander heard Demian mutter.

Consequently, every single one of the present chevaliers were taken by surprise as the elf spoke fluent, if thickly-accented, Common.

“I know of the deal you made my Keeper. I did not intend to go home.” She waved outside. “It is too loud outside. When I am out of the city, it is quiet.”

Alexander’s lip curled upward as he spotted Demian’s pale face.

“Also, some of your chevaliers have bad manners,” the elf said, shooting a glare at Demian. “I am _female._ Speak of me as one.” She paused. “Please,” she added.

Alexander made his face blank as the duke gave them all a glare before turning to the elf.

“I have a place in mind for you,” he assured the young elf. “Please, until you go there, remain here.”

The elf scowled, but nodded.

~:~

PRESENT DAY, SKYHOLD

“Inquisitor!” Alexander hailed the young elvhen woman with a call and a raised hand. The redheaded elf turned to look at her with an arched brow.

“Yes, Ser Varan?”

“Might I walk with you?” he asked, coming up next to her. She nodded, putting the sheafs of paper under her arm and keeping them pressed to her body.

“Of course. Is anything wrong?”

Alexander shook his head. “No, my lady. I was actually curious about something that happened some years ago.”

“Oh? What were you curious about, Ser Varan?”

“First, I realize I am your subordinate, but my first name is Alexander, if speaking it would please you than saying _Ser Varan_ each time,” Alexander replied with a small smile, “and I was hoping you could assuage my curiosity about the… _squirrel_ incident.”

The Inquisitor snorted, then covered her mouth – probably to hide the smile that was already on her face.

“Go ahead,” she replied, the sound muffled.

“Now that I know you’re a mage, did you summon all those squirrels?”

His straightforward question didn’t faze her.

She dropped her hand, her face straight – if not still amused. “No, I didn’t. I had no knowledge of summoning anything but wolves at that point in time, and that… that is something I’ve not used since. No, the summoning array in the tree was done by someone else, and not too long before I jumped into it.”

Alexander blinked. “You… were in the tree?”

“In the middle, yes. It seems so long as you didn’t _intend_ to attack them they wouldn’t have left the tree.” She shrugged. “I thought you saw me. I wasn’t _that_ covered by the squirrels…”

“Probably not,” he allowed, “but seeing so many at one time…”

“Ah. Trauma,” nodded the elf, turning her head away. “Apologies, but it was certainly not I. Anything else I can satisfy your curiosity with, Ser Var – I mean, Alexander?”

Alexander swallowed.

“Is the Lady Pentaghast being courted?”

The Inquisitor stopped in her tracks.

“You want to see Cassandra on a frequent basis?” The Inquisitor looked ecstatic. “She _definitely_ needs it, so no – she’s not seeing anyone! I know she likes inappropriate novels, so that’s… it, actually.” The Inquisitor frowned. “I don’t know. She tends to badger me about being healthy, so I’m trying to avoid her.”

“Oh.” Alexander frowned, then looked the Inquisitor up and down. “She’s right, you know. You probably should eat more. And sleep more.”

The Inquisitor stared at him.

“Oh, no, there’s two of them.”

“Inquisitor, can I get your –“

“Oh, Cullen! What can I get you?” The Inquisitor turned away with a look of relief, quickly walking away from Alexander.

Alexander was just confused.

~:~

Cassandra was hiding from Varric – from everyone, actually. It wouldn’t do for them to find out her hobby. Approaching footsteps caused her to hide the book in the flowerbed as the chevalier who worked for Duke Gaspard approached.

“Lady Seeker,” the chevalier said, looking uncomfortably shy, “I was wondering if you might join me for a drink?”

“Ser Varan, as much as I’d like that, I would like to be alone for the moment.” She ignored his kicked-puppy look and picked up her sword.

The chevalier nodded and bowed his head, walking away.

He passed the Inquisitor, who called a quick good-bye to Cullen and ran to Cassandra.

“Did you say no to Alexander?”

“I have little time for drinks,” Cassandra scoffed. “I cannot afford to be rusty in my sword-fighting skills – something _you_ could use a brush up on, Inquisitor.”

Cullen had caught up to the Inquisitor and heard the clear barb aimed at the Inquisitor, who flushed. Out of humiliation, probably. Cassandra opened her mouth to apologize.

“Cassandra, Ser Varan is a wonderful man. He genuinely wants that drink, and if you say ‘you’re too busy’, I’ll give you a taste of how _I_ feel when _I_ am interrupted from my sleep and I will _kick your arse,_ Cassandra.” The Inquisitor’s eyes brightened. “ _Go.”_

Cassandra cast a look at a wide-eyed Cullen, decided the Inquisitor was serious, and called after Ser Varan.

“Ser Varan!” The chevalier perked up like a mabari when its owner called its name. “Ser Varan, I would enjoy having a drink with you.”

The grin on his face made it worth it.

“The Herald’s Rest, dusk?” he asked.

She nodded.

“OI, Cassandra!” She turned back to the Inquisitor. “YOU LEFT YOUR BOOK OVER HERE!”

Cassandra wanted to die of embarrassment.


	6. Strange Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solavellan with an appearance by Doshiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I really have no idea why I wrote this. It happened.

Adhlea stopped at a certain page in one of the journals she’d found in the Emerald Graves.

 _I had a strange camp last night,_ the page read, in the cramped handwriting of a nameless elf. Her name was what Adhlea was reading for, in her limited spare time. _Last night some of the girls in Clan Aleriel were all talking about Fen’Harel. They were insistent upon escaping to find one of his statues with a couple members of Clan Sabrae – to copulate. According to them, the sexual experience they had was far –_

Adhlea slammed the book shut, the sound echoing through the Rotunda. Solas arched a brow.

“Are you all right?”

Adhlea felt her face was on fire.

“I’ll be back,” she said, offering him a smile before running out to find the only deeply superstitious person in the whole place.

Clan Lavellan was _barely_ superstitious, after all, and honestly asking her clansmen something like this was going to be _embarrassing._

She found Doshiel lounging in the sun, hidden just enough so that her smoking went unnoticed.

“Um, Doshiel?”

Doshiel glanced over at her, her eyes widening and crushing the rolled elfroot.

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

Adhlea cleared her throat.

“I, um, came upon a strange passage,” she said, unerringly finding it and shoving it at Doshiel.

Doshiel arched her brows – her eyes widened, a wicked smirk dancing upon her face.

“Oh, damn… Must have been a _very_ nice night,” cackled Doshiel.

Adhlea frowned, her brow crinkling.

“Why would having sex near _that_ item make the experience better?”

Doshiel stared at her. “Oh, right. Lavellan probably doesn’t – right. Well, um… Let me put it this way. The first time _I_ had sex was in front of a Fen’Harel statue.” Adhlea’s jaw dropped. “It’s like… It’s partly the rush of doing something you’re not supposed to. But… another part of it.” Doshiel’s voice lowered. “It’s… More of a rumor, honestly. But the rumor he was like… a sex god. With a big dick. Some of my clan-sisters fucked around near those statues – some of them even swore wolves would appear to them in their dreams.”

Adhlea stared at Doshiel, almost uncomprehendingly.

“…you mean to tell me that _Dalish_ women think Fen’Harel’s some kind of sex god?”

“I’ve heard he was the most handsome of the Evanuris,” Doshiel said, a dreamy look appearing on her face. “And the writer of this was Hallesta.”

Adhlea just stared at Doshiel as she went to sleep.

She took the book, then walked back to the Rotunda. If anyone had answers, it would be Solas, right?

~:~

Adhlea entered the Rotunda, a strange look on her face.

“Uh… Solas… You’re the expert of the Evanuris around here, right?”

Solas straightened. “Of a sort,” he said, measured. “Why?”

Adhlea flushed bright red.

“Was Fen’Harel…” Solas swallowed reflexively, then brought his teacup up to sip as she restarted. “Was the Dread Wolf practically the sex god of the Elvhen culture?”

Solas choked on his tea.

“I’m sorry!” Adhlea reached to him as he coughed.

He wiped his mouth and his book free of saliva.

“Do not apologize. I was simply startled by your inquiry,” he replied, unsteadily. He should have realized his stupid youthful proclivities would get brought up when he woke. “Might I ask how this got brought up?”

Adhlea flushed brighter red. “Well… um… Apparently it’s a thing to…” she lowered her voice. “Dalish girls, when they come of age in other clans and start to experiment with men, apparently they like to fuck in front of the Fen’Harel wolf statues.” She opened the book she was reading. “Hallesta wrote… Oh, shit.” She was apparently riveted by the words she was reading – when the book dropped from her fingers, she looked like she’d been sunburnt.

Solas flipped back, began to read – and by the time he finished the story…

“…you could say Fen’Harel may have… slept around. Quite a bit. Though I doubt those statues made by the Dalish have much power, unless –“

He stopped, meeting Adhlea’s face. She was pressing her lips together, but her brows were up – meaning she thought of something she _really_ didn’t want to share.

_Thousands of years._

Elvhen oaths crossed his lips as he stood and turned away.

If the Dalish had been doing it for… _thousands of years…_

“The short answer is _probably.”_ Solas knew that he had been one of the more promiscuous of the Evanuris, but that was easily rivaled by either Elgar’nan or Sylaise.

Adhlea nodded before practically fleeing the Rotunda.

Solas couldn’t help but allow a small, smug smirk to cross his lips.

After all, in a culture where he was reviled, to know that _most_ of the Dalish women thought he was a sex god at one point of their lives was _quite_ refreshing.


	7. A Templar's Loyalty

Tabirin d’Esperides tended to follow strength, rather than smarts. He was generally more of a follower than a leader.

He helped carry the bodies from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He watched the elvhen woman, dirty and exhausted and still looking far more fragile than any elf he’d ever seen, stumble from the Fade before collapsing, stones digging into her.

And Tabirin d’Esperides would forever be ashamed afterwards that he wanted her dead.

~:~

Tabirin heard the murmurs around him as the fight against the demons raged on. He stumbled as he stabbed a demon coming out of the rift before a loud _snap_ echoed around the area. He whirled, seeking another’s death –

The elvhen woman rushed past them, staff clutched to her side. The fucking apostate who had watched over her, Seeker Pentaghast, and Varric all followed her to the inside of the temple.

He followed, inconspicuously – he spotted Leliana, her bow out, and was about to move when something else did.

The Breach flashed. A scene appeared.

The elf opened a door in the green Fade.

“ _What the fuck is going on here?”_

 _“Run!”_ Justinia, hanging from the hold of mages – probably _blood mages_ – screamed.

The elf refused. “ _Like_ **_hell_** _!”_

 _“Kill the elf,”_ the disgusting-looking templar said; and what transpired on later had Tabirin reeling.

The elf had tried to _save_ Justinia.

~:~

He didn’t _want_ to be in the Fallow Mire, had actually tried to shove this order onto someone else – but orders were orders. He left the cell easily, ready to carry out his original orders – most of them had been given two sets of orders, after all, and Tabirin’s goal was to seek out any weapons he can carry. Not to release the others, no matter how much they glared.

He managed to hide as the apostate slipped past him; Tabirin made it to the Avvar outpost in time to see her race up the steps and pause at the top.

“ _Dread Wolf take you!”_ her shout was barely heard over the rain.

Tabirin felt… _compelled_ to watch as the Avvar’s giant mace drew itself from the ground.

A savage snarl flipped across the elven waif’s face, and Tabirin felt a chill down his spine.

She ran forward and slammed into him. Such was her strength that they sailed down the steps, that snarl on her face slipping as she stabbed his arms.

Tabirin didn’t stick around much longer.

~:~

When he met her fully, face to face, it was during the long march to their new home. He ended up watching her as she sat in the caravan – for short walks, she seemed to do okay, but the medics, and the apostate Solas, all urged her to take it easy. She looked bored; Tabirin reached into his tunic and held out a pack of cards.

“You look bored,” he offered.

She stared at him, for a moment, her red eyes unsettling.

She quirked a smile.

“I am,” she admitted, grasping the cards.

He bowed his head. “Tabirin d’Esperides, at your service.”

He raised his head to see a flash of surprise on the woman’s face.

“…Thalia Lavellan, at yours,” she said, nodding at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like some backstory with a character in the background might help. If you want to read more of 'em, I'll post more! If you don't... this is just a small experiment.


	8. Undesired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwanted apology.
> 
> Set anytime after the Val Royeaux ball, though not immediately after.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR MENTIONED NON-CON.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...as much as I didn't actually want to make this chapter, I realized that having zero real explanation for this particular incident wasn't enough. I am honestly sorry.

Bill swallowed as he approached the woman in the… Chair… It was a _chair,_ not a throne. She’d had that Andrastrian throne tossed ages ago.

“Inquisitor,” he said, awkwardly. A runner eyed him with an obvious amount of interest. “Can we talk, alone?”

She glanced up, a neutral look on her face as she eyed him. “I would prefer it to be in the mess hall, if we have to speak at all.”

Bill nodded as she stood, nodded to the runner, and – with all the non-running he supposed she could do – stalked out of the room quickly. Bill caught up with her in the silent corridor – only a few people would be present, and decided to get what he was doing out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She faltered for a moment, but resumed her steadfast pace. “Inquisitor –“ he touched her shoulder and she whirled on him, glaring with angry heat. He let his hand fall. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“I would prefer not to discuss _this,”_ she said, her voice arctic before she went to turn. Bill hastily went through an explanation he _thought_ was a reason she could accept.

“I didn’t know they would go after you, I swear,” he promised her. “I didn’t – they were going to go after Mabel – her parents had done something – so I thought the only way was to talk about you leaving your clan when we next met up –“

Unexpectedly, tears were filling her eyes.

“I’m happy they didn’t go after Mabel,” she said, her voice trembling, “but your explanation makes everything _so much worse,_ _Bill.”_ She spat his name out as though it were a curse. “Save your fucking excuses for someone who gives a damn.”

“Inquisitor, I only meant –“

“No, I know what you meant,” the woman said, her voice sharp even as it cracked. “It means that, despite what I _thought_ I meant to you at the time, I was nothing more than a fucking _elf_ to throw to the templars so that your _human_ friend could – what? _What_ were the damn templars going to do to her that was _so bad?”_

“They were going to kill her, probably,” Bill snapped, only for his eyes to widen as the Inquisitor smiled at that.

“At least she would’ve had it over, then,” she replied, softly.

Bill flinched.

The Inquisitor wiped her eyes. “I won’t ask you to leave the Inquisition. The Inquisition needs anyone that comes. I just… Don’t talk to me, don’t try to get an audience with me, Bill. The last thing – the _very_ last thing – I need is you coming over here and telling me how _sorry_ you are for telling –“

She stopped and shook her head, brushing past him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured.

Bill hadn’t thought of the consequences after he’d told them, but then the third templar – Bill couldn’t well remember his name – sent to collect Mabel had come back alone. The third templar had not said a word on what he’d done; Bill had gone to Adhlea’s clan with other templars to ensure nothing out of the ordinary was going on – apparently some elves had gotten it into their heads that pelting templars with rocks from above was good behavior or something – and he’d seen something that had made his blood cold.

A united front in the elves, even the strange ones visiting – Sabrae or something – adding to their numbers. He’d found himself looking away from their hostile glare, and found his gaze locked on the back of a redhead in between, in a small space, as she slid on a tunic.

Bruises littered her back, mostly from the sides – hand-shaped, meaning she had been roughly handled.

Bill was going to be sick as she turned her face, and the half that turned was in late-stage healing – yellowing and probably still very painful.

Something had blocked his view, and he was greeted with the trio of terrifying, pissed glares of Keeper Istimaethorial, her mother, and her daughter.

When he’d seen her in Wycome again, all these years later – his guilt ate at him. So much so he’d waited until now, when he was ninety-percent sure she’d not realized it was him, and then realized that she’d known. If not from the moment she’d seen him at Wycome… She’d known.

He didn’t move after she went back into the hall.

He promised he would never tell Mabel or Dipper – he couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d done.

He turned and was greeted by the runner’s face. She was staring at Bill with disgust, and it transfigured into a threat.

“You speak to her again…” The runner trailed off ominously as she put a hand on her hip. Her jacket rode up, showing a very plain-looking red knife.

Bill nodded, understanding the runner.

She looked grimly satisfied as she brushed past him rudely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to be brisk: Mabel and Dipper's parents did something to gain the templars' ire, and they wanted to use Mabel to get to her parents. Bill, who knew of a Dalish elf wanting to leave her clan, tried to stop them with that news. Adhlea and Mabel were together by the stream, and when Adhlea ran, the templars decided to go after her than the human.
> 
> ...I know, I know, this is FUCKED UP. But there ya go.
> 
> Also, I would like to apologize - sincerely and genuinely. I'm not glorifying rape, and as I try not to refer to it - pointedly - I hope that it's obvious that trauma is a real thing - I do not refer to it as it is more so because I don't like throwing that word around, even in a fanfiction. It's a real thing, and while it has not happened to me, I don't think the survivors of such incidents appreciate me saying that over and over.
> 
> In Thedas, however, I'm ninety-percent sure it happened a LOT, mostly because of the whole templars-in-control thing in Circles, and of course with the people in charge - I'm not saying 'every' person in charge did it, but there are a lot of people who think it's okay.
> 
> IT SURE AS FUCK IS NOT.
> 
> So, again, I'm sorry. I sincerely hope you don't take offense at this.


	9. Ghosts At The End Of The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral: the End of the Journey.  
> AKA Ghosts at Halamshiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda sad, but i kinda wanted to do something for Halloween, but I don't think Thedas technically HAS a Halloween, so it's kinda a dalish remembrance ritual. Also ghosts.
> 
> Also, I WILL refer to this chapter in the next story, I WILL NOT put it into the actual story because it IS Halloween-y, and if I were to put it in there, it would've been the first chapter, but it wasn't. 
> 
> So. Here.

_There is a certain time of year when the veil between the dead and the living are all but gone. The Dalish honor this day as a day of the ancestors, or the dead that do not speak but seek some sort of recognition._

~:~

A few days after she got back from Par Vollen, in the palace of Halamshiral, Adhlea was resting after a tedious meeting with the Empress’ advisors. Of course, as per fucking usual, she didn’t get any rest – something was fucking around in her sleep, giving her nightmares filled of blood and ash.

She finally got up, dressed, and left the room with a cloak on. Shivering in the unusual coolness of the night, the Lady found herself in the gardens. In the sight of the red moon, the Dalish woman felt paranoia.

Tua'sal'adahl'man – or Harvestmere – was a month on the edge of fall and summer. It was one, yet it was another. The small woman shivered. _This is the last night before Firstfall,_ she mused, brushing a leaf. Her attention was drawn from the plants in the light of the bloody moon, to the glittering frost decorating some of the plants.

Adhlea had, admittedly, lapsed from honoring her ancestors. Given that Adhlea had been living amongst humans, she would be forgiven, as long as she _did_ actually honor her ancestors… And she _would,_ honest!

She yawned, turning back to go to her bedroom, and froze.

A young elvhen woman stood, holding her daughter close. Adhlea reached for them –

A beam fell out of nowhere, slamming into them. Adhlea’s eyes widened –

And just like that, the courtyard was filled with phantom images. Adhlea didn’t know who they were, but – they were all clearly elves. Even a Dalish elf, reaching down from – Adhlea blanched, because the building was on _fire_ – a roof was abruptly killed, arrows sprouting from his body. The elvhen girl reaching to him wailed in silent fear.

Adhlea’s breath caught.

She’d been… nine or ten, at Halamshiral’s burning – the only reason it glittered so was because it was still relatively new. Her Keeper had been silent, and at night, the evening meal – she’d given them all wine.

 _“For all those at the end of the journey,”_ she’d murmured in the Dalish version of Elvhen; now…

_For all those at Halamshiral._

Adhlea somehow found herself at her room, digging out incense sticks, a bowl, and ground-up paint she never used. She let her cloak drop as she took the items to the garden; she wasn’t doing this _quite_ the Dalish way, but… Hopefully this would be good.

She walked through the two getting killed by a falling beam; she walked to the middle of the garden.

The only other person there was a young elvhen woman, digging up elfroot and unable to see the apparition continuously getting killed above her as the woman fell down, a spear through half her body.

Adhlea first blew the dried-up, ground blue paint in a smudgy circle before setting the bowl up. She set the incense sticks up, taking a deep breath before speaking words of… well, _technical_ heresy. There was no fucking way she was going to invoke Falon’Din – not after everything.

“I lift this up to whoever is listening,” she murmured, her breaths coming out in crystallized puffs. “The unrestful ones… May them hear me, and hear my sorrow at their violent deaths. Let me lift them up and give me the promise I will seek justice for you.” _Not vengeance._ Vengeance got the dead riled. Giving them vengeance was Dorian’s job. “Let me ask you to go to the world beyond, and I shall return again on this night every year I do not complete this task.” She lit the incense sticks. She stood and turned.

The elvhen servant was watching with wide eyes.

Adhlea felt a lump in her throat.

Small blue lights, some different in color, moved to her and the elvhen girl. Adhlea could see some floating in the city – there was such a beautiful ethereal quality to it –

One of the bright blue orbs resolved itself to the Dalish man, looking grotesque as he did have arrows sticking from his body. His _vallaslin_ indicated he was a follower of _June_ – but that in life, he had been a Lavellan, as –

_Oh._

Deshanna’s family member smiled as he pressed his _vallaslin_ to Adhlea’s, and she heard a faint whisper – probably due to the Vir’Abelasan, but – she still heard it.

 _Lethallan,_ he murmured to her before the cold feeling vanished.

Adhlea watched them go upwards, a small smile on her face.

~:~

In the city, Briala had been pointedly ignoring the spirits who kept falling and dying in their echoes; but her attention had been drawn – by many other elves, by a particular scent. Briala did not _dislike_ the smell of crystal grace and elfroot incense, but she definitely preferred different ones.

Still, as the smell filled the air – not overwhelmingly – she happened to see a spirit who was _definitely_ caught in an echo stop its echo – and begin to glow.

It got so bright she had to blink, and when she did, it was like she hadn’t seen the glow at all. Instead, balls of blue light were swirling around her in circles slowly, almost lazily.

For the first time in… Well, since Briala could remember, the street was empty when the lights vanished, high above them.

She’d also noticed that elves – _pointedly_ – had been circled around. They… were all _elvhen_ after all.

Briala wondered when she’d become so used to seeing the dead at this time of year.

She wonders if she’ll see them again next year.


	10. A Night of Card Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A light evening in Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in other words, I make up a scenario in order to explain shit. Also, the common Dalish vs the Common - I always think of Clan Lavellan's natural cadence in this story as either Irish or Scottish, even though the game itself makes the character to either have a British or American one (i think - I actually only heard the other one like once and decided to stick with the British lady, she's damn cool!) and most of everyone else has what I THINK is a French accent (which I get), and the Elvhen we get to hear is generally soft-flowing and kinda British-ish...  
> ..the Dalish are really far removed from them, and considering most of Arlathan was lost, it's not exactly THAT much of a stretch to assume that the language adapted as the Dalish tried to remain the same. So, honestly, I would totally not be surprised if something like that had happened. I mean it did kinda already happen in our world before, so it's not implausible that a race almost entirely separated from their ancestral language is different, right?

Wicked Grace had been an almost normal event for the Inquisition leaders – and, of course, within the Inquisition itself. Solas was good at it; he’d say that if he’d actually _tried_ to, he’d go away with all their winnings.

But Solas was… _good_ at it. He preferred not to waste time; however, this time, Josephine had begged him to join at the table.

Leliana had been hovering. _Void_ that woman was actually terrifying.

He was surprised to see Adhlea lounging with a few cards; he knew there weren’t enough cards for all to play in one group, but it seemed the leaders took this downtime as a group activity. There were actually several groups at other tables – still knit close enough to hear, but far enough away to pay more attention to their own game. Cassandra seemed to be focusing raptly on her hand – _she_ had the misfortune to have Leliana in her group.

Adhlea was in the middle of talking, her voice loud and animated as she made a gesture.

“- he slipped in the mud and fucking _screamed,”_ she said, sniggering. “A fucking _worm_ was next to his head.”

“You said you wouldn’t say a word!” her brother’s outraged squawk was heard.

“I said I wouldn’t tell our kinsmen, little brother,” she tossed back.

“How much older than him _are_ you? Hours?” inquired Vivienne.

“Five minutes,” both siblings said – Adhlea with a beam and Falon with a groan.

Solas slid into the chair, and his arrival was noticed.

“Oh, you’ve deigned to join us,” Vivienne said, dourly.

“Be _nice,”_ Josephine scolded, sliding next to Solas. “Shall I deal?”

Adhlea grinned and tossed her cards in.

“I’m awful at Wicked Grace,” she warned the table at large.

Josephine rolled her eyes. “ _Please.”_ She turned to Solas, a smile on her face. “Please do go easy on me, it’s my first time –“

“ _Druffalo shite!”_ everyone called, but there was a teasing glint to Josephine’s eyes.

“I must confess, I have never won a hand at this game,” he said, honestly.

Josephine scrunched her nose. “How many have you _played?”_ she wondered aloud.

“One,” Solas replied, unthinkingly. He’d played once against a spirit, and – well, the spirits usually won.

“So, betting,” Josephine said, after an awkward silence. “Solas doesn’t – he’s got literally _nothing_ us girls are interested in –“ she tossed a look to Adhlea, who turned bright red. Solas felt a little heat going up his ears “- so we’re going with… _drinks!”_

She snapped. The bartender – a dwarf from the tavern – slammed down a lot of ale.

“You draw the Angel of Death, you finish off your drink… and that of the one with the best hand.” Josephine smirked.

Solas felt a shiver run down his spine.

~:~

Solas had rarely indulged in so much drink that _this_ happened.

Josephine, perfectly sober, pointed at Solas.

“You lost _again,”_ she said.

“I don’t think I can drink any more,” he admitted, a queasy feeling in his stomach.

“I’m the one –“ Adhlea hiccoughed, giggled, and continued, “who – _who_ drew the death anshel – _angel.”_ She grinned inappropriately at Josephine. “What’re you wantin’ him to do?”

Her perfect Orlesian accent faltered, and for a moment Solas could only stare as the lovely Dalish edge to her Common came out.

“Remove your… tunic,” Josephine decided.

“Not a good idea,” Solas said. And because he was evidently far more drunk than he thought, his next words were… not so… _good._ “It will be too distracting to play if she did.”

Josephine giggled.

Vivienne did, too. She was a damn _lush,_ apparently.

“But it’d be _nice,”_ Vivienne said, her clipped accent surprisingly dull. “Y’know, I’ve always wondered…”

Adhlea threw her shirt down. The skinny woman’s form was not the complete picture of health, but neither was she still in immediate danger of death.

Also, she apparently kept her breasts covered with a firm-looking kind of leather.

“You’re so…”

“Scarred?” Adhlea beamed. “I got this one from a bear!”

A wicked set of claw marks, pale from age, glinted in the lamplight.

“You’re a badass,” Vivienne breathed.

“I _know,”_ the fire-haired mage giggled. “I was one of the _best_ hunters of my clan at my age, you know! O’course, Syven’s now the beeeesstest hunter I know of, and he’s proudly sportin’ Ghilan’nain’s markings!”

“Why?” Solas found it easy to listen to her. “Ghilan’nain was badass,” he said, firm.

“Yeah! I mean, c’mon, _blind_ and an Evanuris? Those bag’o’dicks wouldn’t let her stay if she weren’t!”

“Pretty, too,” Solas murmured. “Even after she got horns.”

It occurred to him, belatedly, he should probably shut up.

“Wait, _horns?”_ Vivienne coughed on the liquid she made a spit-take of.

“Yeah, she was horny.”

Solas regretfully inhaled his drink as he snorted.

 _I probably should stop drinking this,_ he thought.

“Probably,” agreed Josephine. “…perhaps I should drink more of this.”

“But she was _soooo_ pretty,” Adhlea continued, “from all… from all’a Deshanna’s ‘scriptions of her, even though I think maybe she’s on somethin’ cause she said Ghil… Ghil…” Adhlea dissolved into a peal of laughter. “I can’t think of her name,” she wheezed, nearly toppling over.

Solas chuckled involuntarily.

~:~

“I think your sister is drunk,” observed The Iron Bull, flicking another card aside.

“I think they’re _all_ stupid drunk,” Syven said, tossing a pout over to her table. “If she tries to remove her breastband I’ll break it up.”

“…I heard something over there, and I am _insanely_ curious about it.” Dorian leveled him with a stare. “What _is_ the reasoning for getting those markings?”

Syven shrugged. “It was funny,” he said, a tiny smirk catching on the edge of his face. “Essentially, the people who wear Ghilan’nain’s mark are supposed to be the ones tending the halla and the chickens and the druffalo.” Syven let his small smirk turn into a full-blown smirk. “I chose to be marked with the mother of life’s markings to see the faces of my enemies – mostly, actually, people from other clans if we ever started a war – turn to fucking _rage_ because they’re supposed to be cut down by the warriors of Andruil, or even the death-dealers who wear the mark of Falon’Din. Not someone who wore the _Mother of the Halla’s_ markings.” He paused. “And to clarify – Ghilan’nain is mostly the mother of halla, but it is said her powers over living creatures were unparalleled.”

Both Dorian and The Iron Bull stared at him.

“What’s the process for that, anyway? Dalish don’t like to speak about it,” Bull added. “Not,” he murmured, “that I ever pry.”

“Well… Our Keeper used both our own blood and hers to draw this.” He gestured to his face. “She used a thin, pointed stick to channel it, and… I guess… Kinda _burned_ it into our faces.”

Dorian’s brows shot up.

“Were you held down, or something?” Right, Syven had forgotten Blackwall.

“No,” Syven said. “We had to endure it silently, without giving into the pain.”

His sister had done so, wooden and silent even as Deshanna moved all over her face, Mythal’s mark branded upon her face. Then again…

“Sometimes, the process took days,” Syven recalled, “but after I got mine, Deshanna kinda made it less painful for the next generation after she had a fight with her mother – apparently Isanami took exception to the fact Deshanna was making her own daughter suffer, so Isanami gave her a lyrium potion.” Syven shrugged. “’Sides, that doesn’t even account for the damned _idiots_ who wanted the _full vallaslin.”_

“This _isn’t_ the full _vallaslin?”_ The Iron Bull asked, curiously.

“No,” Syven said, grinning a little. “Sometimes, the full _vallaslin_ covers your entire body.”

He nodded to his sister.

“My sister almost got one from a rival clan,” he revealed, “but thankfully Deshanna and Isanami took exception to _that_ and… almost murdered them all.”

“So, is there an advantage to having sex and touching the… markings?” The Iron Bull drew all attention to that. Syven frowned.

“Not with you and Dorian,” he said, seeing Dorian’s face burn furiously. Blackwall looked uncomfortable. “Nah, usually the _vallaslin_ is supposed to burn with pain or some shit, but… Weirdly, it actually _doesn’t_ hurt when you two touch it.”

He then drew the Angel of Death and swore colorfully.

~:~

Adhlea woke up abruptly, air hitting her midsection… _freely._ The elf winced as a loud scraping sound was heard.

Looking up, she saw a fuzzy rendition of Solas standing. Something boomed into her ear and caused her headache to worsen.

 _“Shhhh,”_ she managed to moan, the mere sound of her own voice sending more spikes into her skull.

Something cold hit her, and she immediately fell asleep.

~”~

When she woke, she was still inside the room, just without anyone around. A glass of water and soup greeted her, a note from Solas on the side.

_I know you won’t feel like it, but please eat this. And drink the water; it has essence of willow in it. Minaeve suggested it._

She did as he said to, finishing and setting it at the bar, head still fucking sensitive and _where the fuck was her tunic?!_

Mentally, too worn to do much more, she left the room, heading directly to her room.

“Nobody remembers what happened last night,” Cole said, appearing before her and startling her into a scream. He smiled, proudly. “It was funny.”

He vanished.

_Thank fuck I’m not the only one._

Then another thought occurred to her.

_Wait a moment… WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were all so plastered that they didn't remember.
> 
> So, yeah, fixing up THAT plothole.
> 
> ...I didn't realize until I was almost done with the Solas scene he'd revealed WAY too much, so. Retcon galore.
> 
> Also, I 'splained why Syven got his vallaslin, and if you didn't entirely get it...
> 
> In this 'verse, while some hunters DO wear Ghilan'nain's vallaslin, it's almost entirely unheard of and is considered an insult to be either wounded or killed by them. Syven chose this as his great 'fuck you' to the others.
> 
> ...and yes, most of what happened between Syven and The Iron Bull and Dorian will be discussed in 'The Future Is Not Yet Set In Stone'.
> 
> ...that is super long to write...
> 
> Okay it's like nine at night but to be fair I really haven't been able to sleep that well so I'm fucking TIRED.
> 
> Without further ado, here ya go.


	11. A Trip At A Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Syven bond in an Ostagaran market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aka, Dorian buys something pretty and pretty rare for Adhlea and starts to fall in love with Syven because he's the designated watcher of the Tevinter.

“I wouldn’t expect much from a Tevinter,” Syven said, his eyes cool as he looked at Dorian. Dorian’s eyes widened.

“I wasn’t aware you harbored anger towards me,” Dorian replied. “I shall endeavor to relieve you of whatever worries –“

“You wouldn’t be able to,” Syven said, sharply. “I have yet to see you aren’t like _them.”_

“I’m not the Venatori,” Dorian said, frowning. “I don’t –“

“ _Slavers,”_ Syven said, his eyes narrowing. “Hmm. I guess that _isn’t_ what most Tevene are like.”

Dorian swallowed. “Your sister did not trust me,” he admitted, softly. “But the cause is just.” He paused. “Were any members of your family…?”

“Mother,” Syven said, allowing his voice to soften. “Our two half siblings, Varaina and Fenris. Mother got out before Varaina and Fenris.” He looked away. “She died before she could see them again.”

Dorian swallowed.

~:~

Galifalon looked at him like he was an idiot. “So… _why_ are we in Ostagar?”

“I’m grateful to your sister, so I thought repaying her with pretty baubles might lighten her mood,” Dorian replied, feeling heat on his face. “And I _may_ have told her this excursion was to get in _your_ good graces.” She hadn’t believed him – not entirely, at least, but she’d rolled her eyes and let them go. She’d been down – for good reason. “Last night I had some of the tea here,” he mused. “She wouldn’t like it.”

No, she probably wouldn’t.

“…why get something for my sister _here?”_

Dorian arched a brow. “She may not wear super large jewels, but she _does_ wear jewelry,” he reminded the other. “Women like jewelry.”

He wondered if his sisters had received his packages.

“Huh.” Galifalon had an odd expression on his face. “I never noticed.”

 _No, because you were raised to not notice such things._ Dorian wandered the stalls, catching a few odd looks. Galifalon was scowling at something.

“I can find something alone,” Dorian added, feeling disappointment.

“No,” Galifalon said, his expression flickering into uneasy reassurance. “It’s not _you,”_ he reassured. “You’re not the _worst_ company.”

To his shock, Galifalon tossed an arm around his neck.

“ _So,”_ the elf said, forcefully dragging Dorian forward, “what kind of things d’you think my lovely elder sister would like?”

“Nothing large,” Dorian said. “It might throw off her aim.” He frowned. “You know… she had her ear-lobes pierced.”

“I saw,” Galifalon said, awe in his voice. “Sis has _balls.”_

“No, it’s almost a staple of Orlesian culture,” Dorian absently countered. “Plus, she almost never wears earrings, so it’s not really noticeable if she lets them close.”

“Wow, you _really_ don’t know,” the elf snorted. “That’s not _why_ she’s got balls.” Dorian frowned and glanced over to him. Galifalon gave him a shit-eating grin.

“I’ll tell you if you promise not to tell _anyone.”_ He was _serious._

Dorian nodded.

Galifalon murmured into his ear.

“ _Elvhen ears are one of the entire elvhen population’s erogenous zones.”_

Dorian felt fire flood to his face.

“So, her wearing earrings…?”

Galifalon moved aside, the mischievous look fading a bit.

“Nah, actually. Probably causes her a shit-ton of pain, but other than that…. So I wouldn’t advise getting her stupid dangly earrings.” Galifalon frowned. “Something that looks nice but has history behind it would also work.” Galifalon pressed his lips together as he shot a look behind them – Dorian sighed.

“ _Why_ do you keep glaring at everything around us?”

“Because people are talking,” Galifalon said, after a moment of hesitation. “They see someone from Tevinter with an elf.”

Dorian felt like he’d been doused with a bucket of water.

“Oh,” he said, softly. He could feel his shoulders stiffening.

“ _Hey!”_

A large bellow was heard.

“Chief!”

“Oh, for –“ Galifalon sighed. “C’mon, let’s find something pretty for my big sis.”

Dorian stopped at the next stall.

“Excuse me,” he said, his eyes glued to the beautiful pendant. He looked up to see an elf glaring at him. He swallowed –

“Oi, lady, my friend wants to ask you a question.” Galifalon stepped up. The elf’s features rearranged into stuffy superiority – to his surprise, Galifalon’s had the… _same…_ expression. “Answer him for a prospective customer.”

“…it was made in the time… before the Chantry,” the elf said, reluctantly.

It certainly _looked_ old. Remarkably well-preserved, too.

“Oh, and pre-Chantry artefacts that prove there _wasn’t_ a Chantry is a huge-ass no,” Galifalon grinned. “How much?”

Dorian silently handed over the amount specified. The elf’s eyes bulged, then she looked regretful as she snatched up the money. Dorian gingerly took the necklace from the table, feeling the whisper of magic – nothing more power than a preservation spell that was almost as old as this was.

It was amethyst – a rare, and precious, jewel that was rarely seen by even the dwarves. Amethyst carved into a small, dangling dahlia.

Well, at least she’d get a _laugh_ out of it.

Galifalon reappeared, holding a jewelry case open for the delicate piece of jewelry.

“What stone is that?” he wondered, looking reluctant as he snapped it shut.

“Amethyst,” Dorian said. “My family fortune included some precious stones. We have shards of amethyst in our – _the_ family vault,” he corrected himself. “It’s extremely rare and almost priceless.”

“So, _definitely_ pre-Chantry.” Galifalon looked smug. “Those elves, giving away such rare jewels.”

Dorian shot him a _look._ “Is it just me, or do you and city elves have a grudge against each other?”

“Oh, it’s not just you,” Galifalon said, cheerfully. “City elves look down on the Dalish because we’re wild savages! _We_ look down on city elves because they’ve given themselves to the humans to get fucked over.”

Dorian stared at him.

“Wow. So you Dalish _are_ petty fuckers.”

He blanched when Galifalon froze, his grey eyes widening. Both human and elf stared at each other – Galifalon obviously surprised _Dorian_ had the gall to say something, Dorian because he had _not_ meant to say that aloud and expected retribution.

Galifalon’s face broke into a smile.

“Yep, we’re as petty as all fuck.” He clapped Dorian on the shoulder. He started forward, then tossed Dorian a grin. “Call me Syven, _falon.”_

Dorian blinked.

~:~

Dorian watched the woman open the box, and was gratified to see her face light up with awe. Shitty mood aside, give her something sparkly and she was grinning like a loon.

“But this is _priceless,”_ the woman murmured. She carefully shut it before grinning up at Dorian. “I _adore_ it,” she said. “I _love_ it, Dorian. But… You didn’t get anything for yourself.”

Dorian hummed, shooting a glance at Gali – er, _Syven._

“I think I might’ve found someone I like,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I like the thought of an amethyst dahlia necklace... I was going to go with 'violet necklace', buuut... It ended up that while a violet IS pretty, I prefer a dahlia.
> 
> ...mostly because if Varric sees her with a dahlia necklace, he can laugh about it.
> 
> Oh! And yeah. I WAS originally going to pierce her ears in the main story, but... Well. You can pretty much ignore this, because the only thing I kept was the ear-cuffs.   
> ...I may want a pair of elven ear cuffs.


	12. Kerrah and Gaspard (p1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introspection on Gaspard and Adhlea's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put 'Kerrah' down, because that was her original name to him. This might be edited later, maybe I'll add some parts, I dunno. We'll see.

Gaspard set the elf’s belongings in the empty chateau. He glanced at her. She stepped away from the guards she had. Her red eyes glanced around the room, a flicker of relief as she realized the open nature of the house was well-suited to what she needed.

“I hope everything here is to your liking.”

She blinked at him for a moment before she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, obviously uncomfortable with saying that to _him._ Gaspard looked around again.

Calienne had been given this chateau before her death, to get away from the noise. She had not _died_ here – she’d died in Verchiel, in the care of a healer who could no longer do anything – but some things that just _screamed_ Calienne were laying around.

Like the coat. Gaspard pressed his lips together as the elvhen maiden touched it, trying not to alarm her _or_ come off as a sentimental fool. Green; Calienne’s favorite color had been the same green as her eyes.

She vanished from sight as the footmen began lugging in the elf’s new clothing; he’d have to summon a tailor. Gaspard moved away from them – and caught sight of the woman, staring at his previous wife.

“I did not realize it was still up,” he managed.

“She is pretty,” the elf murmured, clasping her hands behind her back. “This was your previous wife’s home, was it not?” She glanced at him.

“Yes,” he admitted, coming and standing next to her. “She and I… We were a good match.”

The woman nodded. “She looks clever,” the elf said, turning away. “I wish she could stay.” The elf wandered away.

“My lord,” Ser Varan said, keeping his head bowed. “Do you wish the portrait removed?”

“…no,” Gaspard said. “Leave it.”

He headed deeper into the silence, heading to her old room. Kerrah would enjoy that room, more than likely – it was near trees and it had a veranda she could escape off of.

He found Calienne’s box of jewelry she’d not taken and found the specific piece he was looking for, removing it and holding it up for inspection.

The crest of the de Chalons House glinted on the ring. Amethyst, a jewel treasured and rare, glinted in the curled-up grasp of a dragon. Gaspard had made it specifically so that his will was interpreted into the will of his wife – whatever she said was whatever happened unless _he_ directly contested it.

He knew Kerrah would more than likely find the jewels, so he left them sitting on the top of her dresser. Calienne had been a woman of smaller stature; perhaps he could have the tailor hem and have the dresses cleaned.

He stood, leaving the room, the ring in his hand.

“Mistress Lavellan.” The elf dropped a vase.

 _Thank the Maker it wasn’t one he knew about._ Considering this room was completely bare except for things Calienne didn’t like, it was a safe guess that most of this was junk.

“Since we are to be wed soon… I would ask that you wear this.”

She let him drop the band into her fingers.

“…thank you,” she murmured. She rolled it around before fitting it onto her right thumb – the place where the crests usually went if they wore them at all.

“I only ask that you do not sell the jewelry she left behind,” Gaspard requested.

Her red eyes met his. “I will not,” she promised, quiet.

~:~

Their wedding day arrived. People shifted in their seats; Gaspard turned as the Chantry doors opened. The bard began strumming the march for the bride, and nobles turned to look.

The small elf entered, her steps steady – for a woman who had only recently begun wearing heeled shoes, she was surprisingly adept in them.

Her face was clear of all emotion; well, at least her _eyes_ were. She made a striking figure in the Andrastrian white gown; a crown of flowers tucked into her hair – which was half-braided in the back.

She stood in front of him, her eyes meeting his. He looked to her thumb – the ring was twisted inward, looking like an ordinary band.

The vows said, the false cheers of the nobles, and one kiss later, they were seated next to the Empress. Kerrah remained silent and did not eat; Gaspard covered for her by being snide with the Empress. Florianne murmured something to her current lover. Kerrah barely moved.

She only got more tense when they left the banquet, to the laughing titters of the nobility.

The coach would take them to their destination. Kerrah’s hands were fidgeting on her right hand.

“Minister Basille seemed particularly taken with you,” Gaspard noted, looking over to her. She made a noise that was apparently an acknowledgement. “Might I ask for some of your blood?”

Her gaze flicked up, her face paling. Even under the mask, he could see it.

“Like from a finger,” he clarified. “Enough to fool the maids. They’re a nosy bunch, and whatever gossip to convince the Empress I took you to bed will legitimize our marriage with her. And the Chantry.”

She nodded, relief in her eyes.

~:~

He knows he fucked up after she bursts into his study in Verchiel, her mask off and her cheeks blazing with color.

“How _dare_ you,” she seethed, slamming her hands on the desk. It cracked a bit.

“What did I do wrong now?” he questioned.

“You _implied my ancestry was Qun,”_ she snarled out. “I am an _elf._ Not one of _those…”_ A disgusted sneer twisted across her face, and it was honestly _shocking._ “If you _ever_ do something like that I will fucking _kill you myself.”_

He stared at her.

“You _do_ know that’s grounds for –“

“I’m _aware,”_ she spat. Her eyes flashed with challenge. “What, think I lost all my ability to fight?”

Trial by combat – when someone threatened another chevalier.

“I think you don’t know how to fight _honorably,”_ he replied, sharply.

She glared at him.

“Why don’t you fight me and find out?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

~:~

Gaspard was not facing her, and entirely expected her to be there, when he turned his back. Expected it, as he heard the elvhen servants watching them fight – it was by no means a sanctioned fight, more of an unprepared squabble, but there was plenty of men watching, and when he turned to get up, to accept her honorless fight –

She _was_ there, her face as calm as it ever was, and it was _then_ he understood the glare she’d given him.

He’d insulted her ancestry and her style of fighting, and as he took her hand, her hand never moving from her side…

“I yield,” he said, simply as he let go of her hand.

She frowned.

“What?”

“I will not take back what I said,” he said, “but I shall never repeat it. I yield to you.”

He inclined his head to her.

~:~

“Why did that elf not bow?”

It was after a grisly execution. An old man with a Dalish _vallaslin_ had been dragged in front of the Court, and yes – ‘twas a shitty way to react after Adhlea had rescued those servants, but Adhlea had remained stoic.

 _Any last words?_ Celene had asked.

The elf had looked to Gaspard, it had seemed, and the Dalish elf had said something in Elvhen. To the last moment, he had not bowed.

Now, as Kerrah looked back at him from her pose on the balcony, her face is tired.

“ _Ar’an ane fel’ala Elvhen,”_ she murmured. _“Tel’din sal ju ar’an ea’laimsa._ To the best of our knowledge, it’s Elvhen for something that’s been our vow since before our empire fell.” She hesitated. “If I had not been made to by my Keeper, I would never have bowed to Celene,” she revealed.

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, walking past him as she continued talking. “We are the last Elvhen. Never again shall we submit.”

It took him a long moment to realize that it was what the man had said; he’s not terribly proud of it being in the middle of a meeting four weeks later in Verchiel with his heads of staff.

It’s in his head, too, when she does not take advantage of his unprotected back. It’s in his head as he leaves her at the chateau, not to see her for months on end.

Because, he realizes, as her brother comes and collects her and leaves and comes back and attempts to murder him, it’s Dalish pride. They live as such because it is their _way,_ and there is a pride even as Kerrah shifts from Dalish elf to Lady, and when he sees her again after the Breach happens and the world goes to shit…

…it’s still there. The Dalish that mill about, watching her and watching _him,_ too…

(it doesn’t escape his notice that her brother never attacks his unprotected back to kill him. Her brother fucks around with him, but he never has a weapon on him – never has a weapon _out_ when he makes Gaspard fall from the back.

It does later occur to him that hands, especially if they have the strength of the fiery redheaded elf, could kill him, too, but he is _never_ worried about them.

…he was a little tired of all the death threats from her brother, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elvhen in here is LITERALLY 'We are the last Elvhen. Not again will we be lost/slaves'. It was cobbled. Probably badly. Whatever.
> 
> Point is, Elvhen is lost and I decided that their most famed saying might as well be in Elvhen, and while yes it's 'never again will we submit', I could NOT find the Elvhen word for 'submit' or 'never'. My closest word was 'nadas', but that means 'nothing', not 'never'. One could argue they basically mean the same thing (because 'something never' is essentially 'nothing', we say 'nothing happens' not 'something never happens' in that exact way), but the thing is it's not supposed to be EXACT. They're Dalish, they're not the Ancient elves.


	13. The Runner

Being a runner – one of Leliana’s, too – Kitten was respected by the normal runners.

Not so much Leliana’s other runners, who all had better names. There was only one who had a worse name, and that was Nug.

Anyway. Kitten had been assigned to shadow the Inquisitor; so, Kitten was shadowing. Kitten perused a book above the Rotunda, listening to the rest of the Inquisition as she also listened to the Lady chat below.

“ _I don’t really have an opinion on them, if I’m honest. Vivienne keeps trying to convince me to go to a Circle to get more information on them, but I’d prefer not to.”_ The Inquisitor sounds dryly amused.

 _“I would not listen to the things they spout,”_ Solas replied, his voice dismissive. “ _Spirits are only dangerous in the forms we make them. Such as desire.”_

 _“But desire can be in different forms, right? Desire isn’t the simple want of sex,”_ the Inquisitor posed.

 _“True, but sexual desire is one of the main forms of a desire demon – or, at the very least, one of the most common,”_ the dreamer replied, leaning forward. _“One can twist a spirit’s nature.”_

 _“Like what happened with Wisdom,”_ the Inquisitor said, her voice lowered.

“ _Like what happened to Wisdom,”_ Solas replied, his voice nearly inaudible.

Kitten didn’t hear much more as she perused the stacks. They moved onto their alphabet – Kitten spotted a few other Dalish elves listening in and – and _writing._ Elvhen was _weird,_ Kitten decided as she moved past them.

When the Inquisitor left, Kitten shadowed her. Kitten had made an expert of her own ability to remain unseen, and even in a completely Dalish setting Kitten was invisible.

It gave Kitten an insight into the leader of the Inquisition’s day-to-day life – sure, some days the Lady was always in the keep, but at least twice a week, the Lady made her way to her clan.

Today seemed just like any other day – well, if Kitten had not noticed Cat, her mentor, staring at the Lady from _her_ perch.

And yes, Leliana had assigned Kitten to Cat (hence the code name), but that did not mean Kitten was going to stand for Cat to steal _her_ charge.

She kept an eye on Cat as the Inquisitor did her Dalish duties, talking amongst her people. Even in her dress, the Inquisitor seamlessly slid into the clan setting.

~:~

Two days later, Kitten had an opportunity to ask her boss – Leliana. She stepped into the dungeons, where nobody would notice them; Leliana turned to look at her.

“Report,” she said, briskly.

“Inquisitor has not been in any kind of trouble,” Kitten reported, obediently (not like Kitten would be able to _stop_ the Lady from finding trouble, but nevertheless…), “but has been watched by both Cat and me.”

Leliana’s eyes met Kitten’s.

“Cat has been following you?”

Kitten shook her head. “I don’t think Cat has noticed me,” Kitten admitted. “But she’s been following the Inquisitor as well. I presumed you sent her.”

Leliana shook her head, her mouth twisting. “I did not. If you can’t find out what she’s up to, I would suggest you end any kind of threat she may pose.”

Kitten bowed her head before vanishing – the door opening above. Kitten knew better than to reveal herself; if Leliana was meeting someone else –

“Cat.” Leliana’s voice betrayed no surprise. “I’m glad you came down.”

“I managed my assignment,” Cat said, her voice rough. “Lord Balanche will make an attempt on her life in the next three days.”

Kitten held her breath.

“Thank you,” Leliana said, her voice still as it was. Unchanging.

Kitten waited until Cat had left to vanish behind her.

~:~

Kitten saw Cat in the library above the Rotunda. She didn’t palm her knife, intending on taking Cat out with surprise. Cat drew a knife and got ready to throw it.

Kitten launched herself forward, hitting Cat and shoving her back. Gasps from the people around them were muted; Kitten ignored them as she wrestled with Cat. For a silent moment, mentor and student stared at her.

“Why?” Kitten asked, lowly. _Why betray Leliana?_

Cat grimaced and spat in Kitten’s face. Kitten flinched and was now on the bottom, Cat having a hand over her mouth and nose.

Kitten reached for her dagger, which was on her hip. Cat changed her grip and slammed Kitten’s head on the ground. Stars exploded in the woman’s vision.

Kitten was going to die. Her vision went fuzzy.

Abruptly, air was going into her throat. Kitten coughed, reaching down and grasping her dagger – only to freeze at the person behind Cat.

The city elf looked… _displeased._ Solas glanced down at Kitten, but she let her dagger fall to the ground.

“This isn’t outside,” he said, calmly. Kitten felt her heart begin to pound. “You are certainly _lucky_ that nobody interfered.”

Kitten swallowed.

 _Even fighting, you must not be seen,_ Cat had told her. Kitten hadn’t heard Solas come up.

“Dorian, if you would be so kind as to restrain this woman.” Solas gently shoved Cat out; Kitten heard a murmur of surprise float around the library as Cat stumbled out. “She was attempting to kill another.”

Kitten saw his hand and wondered if Leliana was going to kill her for being seen.

“I will inform Leliana of your defense,” the dreamer informed her, softly.

“T-thank you?” Kitten knew it was too good to be true when his eyes hardened.

“Do _not_ thank me,” the dreamer said, his voice dark. Kitten swallowed, trying to keep her fear down. “I would have been _displeased_ if the Inquisitor had died.”

Andraste’s fucking _tits._ He was _terrifying._

He released her.

~:~

Adhlea looked up. Solas offered her a smile, revealing the book.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes catching upon his. “I was going to get it, but you were quicker than I.”

Solas arched a brow in surprise.

She offered a sly smile in response.

He found himself surprised by the warmth curling inside of him. She’d known of her watchers from the _start._

~:~

The Inquisitor was expecting company, Kitten presumed, three days after the Incident. Cat was dead, and a new Cat was being inducted into Leliana’s Runners. She kept to the shadows until the Inquisitor set her teacup down and looked directly at her.

“It’d be nice if I _met_ my watcher,” she said, a smile curving onto her face.

Kitten swallowed and allowed herself to come out of hiding.

“Do sit down,” the Lady said, gesturing to the hot tea across the table. “I must confess, I _love_ tea,” the Inquisitor confided. “Depending on the type, it’s bitter, disgusting, or sweet.” She arched a brow at Kitten. “What kind of tea do you like?”

“…coffee,” Kitten said, meekly.

The Inquisitor arched her brow. “You don’t like tea?”

She was mournful-sounding.

“I…” Kitten floundered. Leliana didn’t _encourage_ the runners to _interact_ with the person they were shadowing. “…never had tea,” she admitted, at last.

The Inquisitor snorted. “Well, I _did_ make you a cup,” she said. “You don’t _have_ to drink it, but it _is_ polite.” She made a point of sipping her own tea.

Kitten took the cup and sipped it – and nearly curled up as sweetness exploded across her mouth. Her eyes widened as she looked at the woman, who merely smiled and continued sipping her tea.

“ _Tevinter_ tea?” Kitten asked, in a hushed voice.

The Inquisitor winked. “Private stash,” she said. “My husband found out I liked it. He has some… _discreetly_ delivered every couple of months.”

Kitten knew very well the Inquisitor imported Tevinter coffee for Dorian and some of the other Tevene natives that had seamlessly integrated in the Inquisition. Apparently not _every_ Tevinter was the worst, though the bulk of the army still contained mostly Fereldan people and Orlesian.

Still, it _was_ illegal to trade with Tevinter in Fereldan and Orlais, so…

Upon mentioning this, the Inquisitor broke into a laugh.

“True,” she conceded amidst giggles, “but I actually trade with Orzammar, who in turn get me what I want.”

Kitten let out a soft laugh.

_Nobility…_

“I do have a question, though. Why not let your father kill me?”

Kitten choked on her tea.

The Inquisitor’s face was curious, not disgusted.

“My father,” Kitten said, the words tasting like ash, “is a despicable human being. Also…” She hesitated, then set her teacup down. “I wanted to help, and I’d been a bard in Orlais before, so Leliana helped me. I got to help you as much as I could, and… She helped me fake my death. Not like he noticed,” she said, bitterly. “He never _wanted_ a daughter.”

She blinked at the nod the other woman was giving her.

“I understand,” the Lady said, giving her a smile that was edged in sadness. “In my culture, when one denies blood ties, they are no longer your parents. _Aye,_ you may have the blood of another clan inside you, but if you ever see them you do not call them any form of _parent;_ you call them their name without pause.”

Kitten frowned. “You speak from experience,” she said.

“Revassan Boranehn is a piece of shit,” the Lady said, her mouth twisting. “His clan is the _worst.”_

Kitten blinked. “I was under the impression Dalish elves got along.”

The Inquisitor stared at her before she _shrieked_ with laughter.

Kitten flushed.

“No, darling,” the Inquisitor gasped. “ _Maker’s breath, **no.**_ Half the time we’re at each other’s fucking _throats.”_

She giggled.

Kitten ducked her head.

“Apologies,” the Inquisitor said, still giggling. “I’ve not laughed like that since –“ She pressed her lips together. “Well, in a while,” she said, still smiling.

Kitten ducked her head.

(It was later that Kitten realized that the Inquisitor always left out something for her to eat. Apparently the Inquisitor was invested in her or something? Kitten didn’t know, but Leliana just kept asking Kitten to report to her usual position – and yeah, after like two more attempts Kitten was joined by another, and Kitten had to enjoy watching Nug have tea and dislike the tea and tell Leliana about the Inquisitor’s illegal trading.

Nug was not killed, but Nug was immediately replaced with Mabari. Nug did not remember the meeting. Mabari and Kitten both enjoyed their jobs.

To a point, anyway. Kitten was later ordered to infiltrate Solas’ Agents of Fen’Harel, and… well, she was found out, but thank _fuck_ Solas didn’t kill her. She wanted to watch over her Lady more.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah... I have no idea.
> 
> Edit: So, haha, me being an idiot, I realized I said she infiltrated the Agents of Fen'Harel when they're all elves, and according to... the biological laws of Thedas, apparently, elf-human relationships don't work out.   
> Well... I have no idea. Whatever. I'm not saying Solas would knowingly let a human into his organization, but I guess she passed as one to his senses or something, 'cause her dad's Balanche, and as is true in this world, he's human. Her mom's an elf, if that helps.   
> ...I guess you could discreetly hide a human's ears? I dunno, okay? She's one of Leliana's people. Clearly she knows how to remain unnoticed. And Solas obviously did not catch on to Kitten being human, though that can ALSO be attributed that he was fucking distracted for a good reason.   
> *clears throat* essentially I forgot the whole 'Agents of Fen'Harel are always elves' kind of thing and needed to make that clear. Kitten's a hidden badass, okay?


End file.
